


a definite article is all the name you need

by perfectlight



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cats, Fluff, Gen, OC, Sherlock Holmes and the Cat, also there is a case, as in Original Cat, that is a thing, this is not actually crack I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 13:00:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlight/pseuds/perfectlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock Holmes gets a cat. (Or perhaps the Cat gets a Sherlock Holmes.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	a definite article is all the name you need

When Lestrade finds out about the Cat, he stares slack-jawed and unblinking at Sherlock for approximately 6.5 seconds (Sherlock calculates them for amusement’s sake). Then he swallows, works his jaw briefly as though checking whether his voice still functions, and says, faintly, "You got a cat."

 

There are no words to encompass Sherlock’s utter disdain for statements of the obvious, so he settles for glaring fiercely at Lestrade. Meanwhile, the Cat, a scrawny grey tabby with large gold-amber eyes and a knobbly spine from hungry street life, uncoils from his usual place tangled around Sherlock’s feet, arches his mottled back, and in a single sprightly motion hops onto Sherlock’s lap and settles bodily down. Sherlock’s hand automatically comes up to lightly stroke the Cat’s spine, and he purrs in his usual ridiculously loud way. 

 

This particular display seems to have startled Lestrade more than the existence of the cat itself. He blinks, hard, once, twice. Says, "You _like_ the cat."

 

The groan Sherlock lets out rumbles more deeply than any purr. "Do you think I would allow any creature in my flat, feline or otherwise, if I didn’t gain _something_ from their presence?"

 

"I’m flattered," Lestrade tells him drily. "Where’d it come from?"

 

"The womb of another cat."

 

"Bloody hell, Sherlock – where’d you _get_ it?"

 

"I didn’t _kidnap_ him, if that’s what you’re suggesting."

 

Lestrade lets out a bark of laughter, which had not been Sherlock’s intention – he had wanted to bother the DI into shutting up about the Cat and getting on with describing whatever mildly urgent case (possibly domestic violence, most likely involving some supposedly inexplicable death that is in actuality obvious, will undoubtedly not be more than an eight) he had come to Baker Street with.

 

Sherlock lets out a sigh that hopefully expresses his utter frustration with the state of the world and its inhabitants. "I didn’t so much get a cat as the Cat got a Sherlock, according to my brother." And hadn’t _that_ been an interesting conversation.

 

_Mycroft sweeping through the door in his usual I-am-omniscient-and-therefore-rule-all manner, infuriating, had broken his diet this morning with a chocolate biscuit, his face all puckered and smug with whatever he intended to bother Sherlock with this time. Then he’d caught sight of the Cat curled comfortably up in the warm spot left on Sherlock’s chair, arrowhead chin resting on crossed paws, with a spear of pale light from the windows curving over his tabby coat, and Sherlock had never felt so lucky as he had that instant to cross out of the kitchen and see his brother’s face – the expression that crossed it was nothing short of shocked revulsion, curdling as though he’d suddenly bitten a spoilt lemon, and Mycroft had actually recoiled slightly as his forehead knotted itself askew._

 

_"Sherlock," he had snapped, and the glee Sherlock had felt upon deducing the long-since-deleted fact that Mycroft was severely allergic to the fur of most animals was almost more fulfilling than a proper high, "why is that revolting creature contaminating your armchair with its fur?"_

 

_God had surely smiled upon Sherlock and sent a chorus of angels to sing throughout Baker Street. "Brother dear," Sherlock had smiled, innocent and charming as though Mycroft were one of his many nannies and Sherlock would very much like a sweet, "I’ve made a friend. Aren’t you proud of me?"  
_

 

_Mycroft’s disgust makes him look ill. "This is not friendship, this is commensalism. An animal followed you home and now you feed it and clean its droppings in exchange for its defiling of every open surface in this flat."_

 

_"Honestly, Mycroft,_ defiling _? You make it sound as though the Cat’s gone about having sex everywhe–"_

 

_"Please," and now Mycroft actually looked nauseated, it was_ Christmas _, it was bloody well Christmas Day, "stop. I beg of you. This can only end horrifically."_

 

_"I took care of a dog once," Sherlock said. "Cats are statistically much easier to accommodate."_

 

_"Cats are heinous, manipulative beasts."_

 

_"Perhaps I ought to call him Mycroft," smiled Sherlock, before striding forward and shutting the door in his brother’s face._

 

Lestrade sets his shoulders in a familiar way that Sherlock has long since translated as _oh bloody hell I might as well go along with it_. "Has it got a name?"

 

Sherlock frowns and pauses his scratching of the soft tuft of fur behind the Cat’s ear. He gives Sherlock a questioning _mrow_ , glancing upwards with large, hurt eyes. "Sorry?"

 

"The cat. What d’you call it?"

 

"Nothing. Obviously."

 

It is Lestrade’s turn to frown, creasing his entire tanned face. "What?"

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and resumes scratching the Cat, who meets his gaze briefly before settling down into a comfortable, sleepy lump of fur and purrs. It’s one of their quick, communicative moments, this time meaning something like _can you believe the idiocy of all the other creatures on this planet_. 

 

"Lestrade, he's an animal, a feline, and while he may be particularly intelligent for a lower life-form and certainly devious enough, he is not capable of using any name given to him or even truly understanding the meaning of his designated syllables. Perhaps he could recognise the sound of his name after a long while, but otherwise I see no point in assigning a human title to a nonhuman, and I will _certainly_ not go about my flat calling for ‘Fluffy’ or ‘Mittens’ like certain landladies have sugges–"

 

"All right, all right, bloody hell, I get it," Lestrade interrupts, kneading his forehead with one weathered palm. He doesn’t ‘get it,’ obviously, but Sherlock hadn’t expected him to – even if Lestrade was the type of man to have a pet, which he is steadfastly not, he would have gone along with the rest of the population and called the creature something ridiculous like _Douglas_ or _Lennon_. "Just, you know, you might want to name it sooner or later. What’ll you do if you have to fill in a form at the vet? What if you lose it?"

 

The look Sherlock levels toward Lestrade this time is positively icy. "It may have escaped your notice, Lestrade, but I happen to be a _detective_. I’m fairly certain I could find a cat if properly motivated."

 

Lestrade opens his mouth to argue, shuts it, tips his head, half-shrugs in unspoken agreement. "Still. What if you needed to, I dunno, fill out a form to give it a shot? Would you just call him  _the Cat Holmes_?"

 

"He's already had the necessary shots. Molly rather fiercely recommended a veterinarian when she found out I had an unvaccinated feline from the streets living in my flat." Not even _fiercely recommended_ so much as _swoop through the door uninvited, shove the Cat into her saccharine Toby’s carrier, swoop out again, and not return until a steady round had been completed at the veterinarian’s and the Cat was clearly terrified out of his wits_. 

 

Lestrade’s mouth crooks up the way it always does when anyone so much as _thinks_ of Molly Hooper, and it’s quite frustrating that they haven’t just gone and _dated_ already, or whatever it is proper people do to rid themselves of stiflingly obvious romantic tension. "She would’ve done, wouldn’t she?"

 

The Cat, half-asleep, with his purrs lazily settling into a soft hum, burrows into Sherlock’s stomach and relaxes warmly there. Carefully Sherlock lets his hand rest on the crook of the Cat’s neck where he can still feel the vibrations of his purrs and fluttering of his little heart but will not disturb his dozing. The Cat, Sherlock has long since decided, is much more agreeable than the majority of human beings. 

 

"Lestrade, do you have a case for me or would you prefer to stand there mooning over a pathologist and questioning my worthiness as a pet owner?"

 

The rumbling of his voice thrums in time with the Cat’s soft purring.

 

**...**

 

The Cat had, in fact, followed Sherlock home, but back then he was simply a cat, with no capital letters or definite articles to differentiate him from others of the species. He had been much scrawnier then – thin and shaky and utterly starved, with a slight limp in one paw from an unidentifiable accident. 

 

Sherlock Holmes had not pitied the cat. Sherlock Holmes was a detective, cold and logical and brilliant, and he did not go around London feeling soft, buttery sentiment curl through his insides whenever any flea-ridden starving tiny tabby stared up at him with huge, multicoloured eyes full of awe and trust and pleading. And he had certainly not scooped the cat up and held him close beneath his coat to ward off the chill of early London autumn – it had simply been a convenient manner of conveying the cat after it had followed Sherlock for nearly three blocks and shown no indication of giving up. Nor had he _pleaded_ with Mrs Hudson for some kind of proper food and bedding for the animal; he had simply _asked_ and she had been in a strop about it because it was half eleven and she’d already had some of her soothers. 

 

Obviously, it was a set of coincidences that brought the Cat into 221b Baker Street. The universe could be lazy on occasion. The universe had created cats, after all, and they were exceedingly lazy creatures.

 

Though the Cat had his more energetic moments, once he began to regain a half of the weight the Internet told Sherlock was healthy for a tabby of approximately the Cat’s age (not that Sherlock had been _perusing_ feline forums, only casually googling in moments of vague interest). He had, for instance, begun a tirade of complaints whenever Sherlock would scratch meaningless chords on his violin as a conduit for deep thought. The Cat’s complaints consisted mainly of equally meaningless and exceedingly more annoying yowls and screeches at the height of his high-pitched mostly-kitten lung’s capabilities. Yowling clashed discordantly with Sherlock’s violin, forcing him to switch to some form of pleasant-sounding music, which the Cat always seemed more pleased with. When Sherlock had gone three days without scraping frustratedly at his violin, Mrs Hudson fluttered up to 221b with three tins of tuna from Tesco’s that she placed almost reverently before the sleepy cat, calling it a ‘dear’ and thanking it profusely. Sherlock had considered scraping a musical complaint at her when she waved smilingly at him and turned to leave but had no desire to interrupt the Cat’s slumber. Instead he put emptied one of the tins into the Cat’s petri dish of food, refilled the water in his teacup, and shelved the other two tins next to a box of finger bones that were meant to be stored in a cool, dark space.

 

**...**

 

Sherlock had not been lying when he told Lestrade the Cat was a devious creature. His preferred form of manipulation involved putting on the most innocent of faces and making himself impossibly adorable to gain whatever reward he so desired – an empty box of takeaway, a paper bag, newspapers Sherlock had scoffed at, Sherlock’s entirely undivided attention and affection.

 

Not that he felt affection towards the Cat. It was simply a mutually beneficial living arrangement, rather like having a flatmate: the Cat provided distraction, calm, emotional fulfillment, amusement, and Sherlock fed him and cleaned up after him. (Once Mrs Hudson had mentioned that having a cat was a bit like having a child, a thought that a horrified Sherlock had promptly deleted.) No, Sherlock was not _fond_ of the Cat, though his presence was much more enjoyable than that of nearly anyone or anything else, save a good murder and a flabbergasted Met.

 

The first time Sherlock observed the Cat’s devious nature since the Cat’s relocation into Baker Street was before the violin incident. A truly fascinating case involving a series of coded messages emailed as GIFs of dancing men had been brought to Sherlock by a woefully desperate Lestrade, and the far wall of 221b was papered with screenshots, snapshots, keys and symbols, all interconnected by enticingly bright red thread. A breakthrough in the vowels sent Sherlock reeling to the Met, high on anticipation, with no thought for the resident feline save a quick glance at the Cat’s full petri dish of food. 

 

Sherlock’s first observation upon his return had been _red thread everywhere_. The second was _scattered papers, torn photographs, ripped ciphers, utter chaos_. From the top of the far couch, judging by the scattering of tabby fur there, the Cat had jumped and swatted at the thread, the papers, the web Sherlock had carefully arranged to organise his thoughts regarding this fascinating case, and inadvertently but completely _destroyed_ it.

 

And in the middle of the whole mess the bloody Cat sat, looking perfectly innocuous, swatting idly at a loose snip of red thread on the floor, and did not give the shocked human in the doorway so much as a guilty glance.

 

"What the _hell_ ," Sherlock growled, and made to sweep in through the door, scoop up the Cat and dump him back into the streets, but his foot happened to land on a strip of the cipher key he had worked so dutifully on, scrawling and erasing and scribbling again into the early hours of the morning. It had landed near two consecutive GIF frames of a stick man that kicked its leg into the air, and out of nowhere, Sherlock had a flash of inspiration: what if it was not the frame itself that represented a letter, but the particular movement created by the multiple frames forming the GIF?

 

He barreled into the flat and began piling all the legible and pertinent scraps of gnawed paper he could find, arranging them messily on the couch until a cohesive pattern formed in his mind, a cipher key written not on destructible paper but on a large, immovable wall of his mind palace. And when the silly dancing GIF message had been translated into a remarkably threatening statement for the unfortunate woman who had received the email, Sherlock hurriedly knotted his scarf again and whipped back to the door, ready to snatch up the first cab that came along (passengers or not) and return to the Met – but then he caught sight of the Cat, still sitting demurely in the chaos he had created, now nibbling at the corner of an unnecessary and perfectly useless key to the dancing GIF. 

 

Sherlock bent down, scooped up the Cat, and clutched him tightly in the crook of his neck and shoulder, giving him a fierce rub in the soft, tufty spot behind his ear and feeling his sudden, surprised purr of delight – then he all but dumped him into his favourite armchair and dashed away.

 

Upon returning, half-drunk on adrenalin and success and his own unquestionable genius, Sherlock found 221b to be in, somehow, the same state as he left it. Often when the flat is a mess he’ll come back to find it mostly clean, or at least hoovered, often with a cup of tea placed delicately between experiments. As this had been the case with his bedroom for the majority of Sherlock’s childhood, he’s never really thought to question it; but the lack of such an occurrence is unusual.

 

The Cat is in his favourite spot, the hollow of Sherlock’s armchair, and Sherlock strides over to kneel beside it and pet the cat awake. "I think," Sherlock tells him, "this is your fault. Because I’m supposedly responsible for your actions."

 

The Cat yawns in Sherlock’s face and settles back down, scrunching up his eyes with subtle delight as Sherlock rubs his forehead.

 

"I ought to be upset with you, you know," Sherlock says softly when the cat tips his head up to rub his nose against Sherlock’s forehead. "You could have ruined this case and cost several people their lives. I nearly threw you out."

 

A blink of those large, guileless, sparkling amber eyes, and then the Cat gives Sherlock’s cheek a darling little lick before settling his head down on his paws and falling into a purring sleep.

 

"You’re being deliberately manipulative," Sherlock tells the Cat. "Devious and underhanded and adorable and sly and do not think for one second I’m not fully aware of your tactics. In fact, I’m considering punishing you for destroying my web."

 

Though his eyes are shuttered in near-sleep, the Cat manages to press his damp little nose against Sherlock’s fingertips, and his tiny, fluttering breaths stutter over Sherlock’s knuckles.

 

"I am not at all smitten with you," Sherlock tells the Cat.

 

**...**

 

"Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock yells from the couch when he hears her familiar creak on the staircase. "I’m almost entirely out of food."

 

She scurries up, pokes her head past the doorframe. "Cat food or people food?"

 

A Mycroftian frown puckers Sherlock’s forehead. "Both. All food. Food in the collective case. There is a distinct lack of any sort of food in this flat."

 

"Well, go and get some, then!" Mrs Hudson titters, all amused between the wrinkles of her face.

 

Sherlock actually rises up on his elbows in his confused frustration, which sincerely offends the Cat, who has been resting in a warm puddle of thrumming fur on Sherlock’s belly. "I don’t _get_ food, Mrs Hudson, it just _happens_."

 

"No, it doesn’t, you silly boy, I drop something in your refrigerator now and then, and your brother’s people bring most of that awful takeaway you stuff yourself with," Mrs Hudson sniffs. 

 

Sherlock vaguely recalls her bustling through his kitchen every now and then with a bag from Tesco’s or Marks and Sparks or some other dull, bustling place he much prefers to avoid, but had assumed it was just something Mrs Hudson _did_. Like fuss and titter and make more biscuits than one old woman could possibly eat on her own. His frown deepens. 

 

"Don’t you have any, I don’t know, Jammy Dodgers in your cupboards?"

 

Mrs Hudson’s mouth drops open in offence. "You can’t feed your poor cat _biscuits_! Oh, the little thing, I don’t know how it’s survived this long with you."

 

She comes forward to scoop up the Cat and fuss over him in some infuriating way, but Sherlock feels a sudden, hot rise of indignation, and tugs the Cat towards his chest so firmly he  _mrows_ in protest.

 

"Mrs Hudson, I am a proper _genius_ , a consulting detective, a chemist, a fully grown man and a prodigious violinist; I am _perfectly capable_ of taking care of the Cat, _thank_ you. So if you could take your unneeded fretting elsewhere or go reminiscence about the days when you were an exotic dancer, I would very much prefer for you to do so!"

 

Mrs Hudson lets out the expected little gasp, sets her face in the expected mask of offence and whirls, as expected, from the flat. Sherlock huffs out a breath and settles back down onto the couch, plopping the Cat onto his stomach again and scratching beneath his chin until the calming rhythm of his purr has settled over Sherlock and stilled his thoughts.

 

"Of course I can take care of you,’ Sherlock says indignantly, and the Cat seems to narrow his eyes at Sherlock in suspicion. "Oh, don’t give me that look, as if you could feed _yourself_. Do you think there’s a shop I could call that delivers cat...things?"

 

The Cat makes a mumbling little _mrr_ of obvious exasperation.

 

"Well, I’m not _going_ anywhere. Shops are miserable, horrid places and I can’t bring you along and it would mean Mrs Hudson won the argument. Not that I was arguing, I was obviously in the right."

 

A puffy sigh from the Cat; he settles down on Sherlock’s chest and languidly stretches his claws.

 

Sherlock argues with the Cat for nearly a quarter hour more, but in the end it’s the Cat’s pitiful glances towards his empty petri dish that sends Sherlock, grumbling, to a shop with a deleted name to buy a deleted brand of cat food and a deleted can of something-or-other for himself. Mrs Hudson beams proudly at him when Sherlock returns, displeased and cold and laden with infuriatingly crinkly shopping bags, but he can’t bring himself to delete her smile as he stomps up the stairs to the flat and the waiting Cat.

 

**...**

 

"And how is your revolting feline?" Mycroft drawls over the mobile.

 

"The Cat," Sherlock says with careful emphasis, "is fine. My flat is absolutely drenched in fur. Clients find it difficult to breathe properly."

 

"Most likely do to your insufferable air of smugness," his brother tells him, smugly. "My sources tell me you have yet to name the little beast."

 

"I believe Lestrade would be more open to your unrealised romantic feelings towards him if you would simply phone him – on his phone – rather than forcibly kidnap him and have him dropped in unsavoury parts of the East End. Or is that the only way you can force your intended to converse with you?"

 

Sherlock can just _see_ Mycroft’s sour, chubby face wrinkle with anger. "I have what I may delicately call a _legion_ of assassins at my fingertips who can be dispatched at any time if I am so much as put off by a tourist’s accent. Do you really think it wise to offend me?"

 

Sherlock snorts. "Oh, _brother dear_ , we both know my loss would break your heart."

 

"Name your blasted cat, Sherlock, it’s immature to leave it with a definite article simply to spite a detective inspector."

 

"I had already decided _not_ to name him before Lestrade butted his head in!" snaps Sherlock, who had fully intended to take advantage of his brother’s frustration and offer up a mature and well-rounded response.

 

"Is that so," says Mycroft with irritating slowness, and he’s gotten the upper hand of the bloody conversation again without Sherlock even realising it. "And here I was thinking you’d name him after me."

 

"Piss off," hisses Sherlock in a very catlike manner before punching _end_ on his mobile as fiercely as he could manage. When he’s slipped it back into his jacket he glances down to see the Cat sitting and watching him from beneath the kitchen table with the usual sweet wideness to his impossibly innocent golden-amber eyes. The ink-black tip of his tail flicks back and forth on the ground. Sherlock tips his head at him; the Cat tips his head in response.

 

"A definite article is all the name you need," Sherlock tells the Cat. He reaches down to scoop him up and the Cat fairly leaps into his arms, purring before Sherlock has even begun to stroke that familiar trail down his mottled tabby spine. The fluttering of the Cat's quick, feline heart matches the thud of Sherlock’s larger, human one, and the Cat, at least, knows that heart is there.

**Author's Note:**

> This one was fun to write. Cats and a stroppy Sherlock? How can a writer resist?
> 
> (Note: I do have companion fic ideas centred on John and Gladstone floating around in my brain; they may form a cohesive thing sooner or later.)


End file.
